The Touch of Magic
by FantasiaWandering
Summary: He had never known the touch of magic without pain. Now, Fenris muses on why Dale Hawke's magic is so very different from all he's ever known, and why Hawke is unlike any mage he's ever met. (Stream of consciousness musing on why Fenris clicked with mage Dale and not rogue Adriel).
He had never known the touch of magic without pain. From his earliest memories, the weapon known as Fenris had been forged in the fire of magic's vicious light. So it was that the first time her magic touched him, he had no idea what it was.

At first, he had not even known Dale Hawke to be a mage; she lacked the arrogance and the casual cruelty of the magisters of Tervinter. Only when she unleashed her power against the demons Danarius had left behind did he realize the truth, and only his desperation made him even consider working with her. Even then, it had been an uncomfortable truce. He tolerated her because she was useful, telling himself that he could always kill her later if she proved to be a threat. He kept a wary eye on her and the other two mages in her motley entourage as they fought, and if that meant that the blows of his enemies found their mark on him more often than they normally did, well, that was the price of vigilance. He was no stranger to pain, so he steeled himself and fought through it, as he always had.

Until the light washed over him.

Brilliant without blinding, it was a blue that spoke of ocean depths and clear skies, and it brought with it the warmth and sweetness of summer wind. It bathed him in its brilliance, and the lyrium beneath his skin sang in response. Yet there was no pain. Just that gentle warmth, that soft light, and the pain was… was…

Gone.

She had _healed_ him. Not the fast, brutal healing the magisters had put him through when their tool had become damaged in their service. That had been violence and callousness, tissue ripping and tearing as they bent it to their will and stitched it back together. This, though... This was altogether different. Her magic flowed like a river through the tracks beneath his skin, filling in the gaps in his flesh and leaving him whole.

When she withdrew, the only thing he could think to do was turn and stare at her, and he found himself faced not with the wry, flippant woman who had brazenly flirted with him in the darkness of Hightown, but with a demon. Her face twisted in rage as she raised her staff, and here, at last, it came. He braced himself for the blow even as he forced back what might almost have been disappointment. He had let himself believe, for a moment, that a mage might have a shred of decency within her, and he would not let himself make that mistake again…

The volley she unleashed was not for him. Power arced above his head, driving into the shambling corpse that had ambled up behind him while he had stood gawping at her like a besotted child, and the monstrosity vaporized in a spray of rotting meat.

Well, then.

He threw himself back into the fray, losing himself in the song of battle and leaving the strange, unsettling thoughts behind. Better to focus on what he knew, for now. His blade cleaved through flesh and bone and things that had no name until the battlefield was clear and only he and his reluctant allies remained standing. Turning, he braced himself to confront her.

She was spent. Every line of her radiated exhaustion as she leaned against her staff for support. So weary was she that she did not sense the darkspawn raising its blade behind her.

There was no thought. No consideration. Only blind rage and the need to act that drove him across the battlefield toward her. He saw her take notice of him, saw her eyes go wide and her hands tighten on her staff as his blade swung toward her.

It passed over her head with barely an inch to spare and drove into the darkspawn, spraying both of them with dark blood as his stroke split it nearly in two.

It was her turn to stare at him, understanding dawning in her eyes as she raised her gaze from the ruined darkspawn to meet his.

"Thank you," she said.

He could not bring himself to say the words in return. Not to a mage. Not even to one who had healed him. Especially to one who had healed him, whose magic still echoed within him, his veins humming in response. Instead, he gave her a brief nod as he sheathed his sword, and said only, "learn to watch your back."

Gratitude was not a skill he had ever claimed to have in excess.

* * *

He had not thought their alliance would continue, but against all expectation, it persisted. Changing, slowly, into partnership. Then, something more. There had been days when he had hated her for making him enjoy her company. For the expectant way in which he lingered in the shell of Danarius' house, gazing at the door and hoping that she might walk through it in need of his help. Or his council. Or… companionship. He had hated her, too, for the thrill he inevitably experienced when she did come, with the gleam in her eye that signaled imminent trouble. Some days, he hated himself for it, too. She was a mage, and still he leaped to do her bidding, coming when she called like his little dog. He ought to hate her still. He _should_ hate her.

There were many emotions that stirred in him at the mention of Hawke's name these days. But he could not truthfully say that hate was one of them. Not any more.

Over time, he came to notice a pattern when they fought. Inevitably, while he or the guard captain or the pirate wench pursued their attackers, Hawke would hang back with the dwarf and cast spells from afar. But not, as he had initially suspected, out of cowardice. Her attacks inevitably focused on the distant enemies attacking _him_ and her other companions. The magic took time, and concentration, and she would stand there and cast her spells to protect the others as their enemies flanked her, chipping away at the stone armour around her until their blades ran with her blood.

He called her out on it once, confronting her in anger when he was deep into the wine. Hawke had the utterly bewildering habit of insisting on _talking_ to all of them in turn after a fight, seeking them out wherever they had come to rest. He had shouted at her, demanded to know why she would not take care of the attackers around herself first, and _then_ focus her attention elsewhere. Her lips had thinned, her arms folding defensively across her chest as she told him primly that she cast her magic where she thought it could do the most good.

He apologized, later, nursing the head full of regrets that always came the morning after breaking into a new vintage. Or three. But though Hawke had accepted his apology with far more graciousness than he would have, she never did learn to watch her back.

Well, then, he would just have to watch it for her.

He suspected the others noticed. He was _certain_ the dwarf had. In the thick of every fight, as Hawke rained fire and ice upon the horde, Fenris could be found at her back, decimating the bastards who would sneak up behind her, but none of the others ever said anything. Nor would they - Hawke had touched them all, in her way, and they would not begrudge her that protection. They understood that much. He had snapped at the pirate once when her tongue grew too sharp, making his role clear. He had been Danarius' bodyguard, with no say in the matter. Now, by his choice, he was Hawke's.

He still felt hatred and rage when he fought at her side, but it was no longer directed at her, the mage who forced him to endure the touch of magic. Instead, he brought it to bear on those who would dare to cause her harm, deflecting the blows meant for her and waiting for that moment when the sweet touch of her magic would wash over him again and just, for a moment, make him whole.


End file.
